


Maieutic

by Alethia



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Arthur Broods, Lancelot Pushes, Leadership Sucks, M/M, Pre-Canon, Questioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-07-22
Updated: 2004-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-10 00:33:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would not share my mood with anyone tonight, Lancelot.”</p><p>“Would it please that I go?” he asked quickly, ingratiating, no intention of leaving, certainly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maieutic

**Author's Note:**

> Maieutic: Of or relating to the aspect of the Socratic method that induces a respondent to formulate latent concepts through a dialectic or logical sequence of questions. Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/83801.html).

Lancelot went in search of Arthur after it became apparent the man would not be joining their revelry. Again. It was becoming far too common for Arthur to abandon them to their festivities and the man had nary a poor excuse—he went alone, near as Lancelot could judge.

A swift but silent entry into Arthur’s private quarters—he would not be cross; it was a privilege he allowed Lancelot—found the man spread silently across his bed, hand moving inside breaches in a rhythm any man of sixteen summers would recognize instantly.

“So, our commander is human after all,” Lancelot said, watching the abrupt stillness come over Arthur. The other man sighed and removed his hand, sitting up as if to face judgment before a merciless god.

Lancelot had no interest in judgment, unlike these Romans.

“And yet I wonder, is this not a great sin against God and man?” Lancelot gestured to Arthur vaguely, moving fully into the room, the whisper of light curtains falling closed behind him, enshrouding the two men in false privacy.

“It is.” Said tiredly, as if already weary of the battles and the death. And their conscription was but four years begun. 

Lancelot smiled bitterly, eyes wandering around, taking in familiar Roman articles, books—to Arthur what the lion was to Lancelot—before resting again on its occupant. “A sin. One you do not have to commit, but one you choose.” 

“I would not share my mood with anyone tonight, Lancelot.”

“Would it please that I go?” he asked quickly, ingratiating, no intention of leaving, certainly. Lancelot leaned forward, easily discerning the stiffness clothing could not hide from him. It amused him to poke at Arthur’s soft spots, comforting to know he could get to this man whenever he pleased. 

Eyes gaining some measure of clarity looked a question at him and Lancelot smiled again, letting a bit of what he intended show, only to make those eyes widen in carefully-reined surprise, that flare of heat shining through even still.

“Perhaps not. The Great Arthur needs his Knights tonight.” Already calling him that, and so young. Lancelot told himself it was of no matter, that his own reputation as a great fighter was assured. But it was not the great fighters who caught the roaming eyes of the fairest of ladies, though this great leader seemed bound to deny himself even that small measure of comfort.

“I need but one.” Rough, like flesh against the tree bark, like the danger of feeling it, occupied forest whisper-close and just as deadly.

Lancelot straddled him then, briskly settling in that lap in a parody of a familiar position. Stealthy hand under cloth, leather—Tristan good for _some_ lessons, certainly—finding what Arthur had so recently touched, need still hard and leaking.

Firm stroke up and Arthur almost winced, gone too long without relief. Lancelot watched his face, liked the frown of concentration, the gasps Arthur could not stifle every time he twisted his wrist _just so_ , this great man at his will.

Did not like the closed eyes.

Lancelot leaned in and bit at Arthur’s ear. “Open your eyes and watch me, Arthur. I am not some pretty maid to be treated so.”

Pulled back to find Arthur watching him, shadow of apology in his eyes before they again clouded over with the pleasure of the act. Lancelot smiled then, a horde of Woads could attack and Arthur would be not spare a thought for them, and leaned in to drag teeth and tongue along his neck, hands still moving, Arthur now moaning. Reveled in his own pleasure at touching, being able to touch, feeling the strain of strong thighs underneath him, the little beads at his forehead giving proof of his effort.

Moved lips back to ear, teasing with teeth, tantalizing with tongue. Lancelot breathed the name known to the ends of this land into the other man’s ear, feeling before hearing the shocked gasp, the cry torn from his lips and his shudders of release.

Watched still as Arthur collapsed, again splayed over the bed, undignified. Only for Lancelot—the two of them closer than kin—and it inspired an unexpected rush of affection for the man underneath him.

He ignored his own need, throbbing between his legs, a need that Arthur had awoken in him. He was not fool enough to expect any relief from the other man this night. It was a surprise that Arthur had not objected, and perhaps he had taken his sorrow too seriously, unable to muster the will to resist.

A sobering thought if ever there were and Lancelot did not want that, did not want to gain Arthur at cause of some weakness. It was not weakness that drew him so. 

Arthur’s breathing had slowed and Lancelot absently wiped his soiled hand on the bed, watching their leader frown. Ah, brooding again.

“What of this? Another sin? Astonishing one can keep record, what with so many.”

Arthur opened his eyes slowly, knowing the thing Lancelot spoke of. “The Church…frowns on such unions as these.”

“Your Church. Not mine,” he said vehemently. They had had words of this on previous occasions. Arthur’s respect only grew Lancelot’s more, fertilizing and nourishing, until it took up an impossible space, too overwhelming to be in accordance with any vision of reality.

“Yes.” He levered himself up, watching Lancelot in that way that said Arthur knew his thoughts. In his present state…it was unwise to remain. 

He stood.

“Now that you are satisfied, I should return to the men,” he said, stiff as the member between his legs. He would find a woman tonight and if she was a little too soft or a shade too small for his liking…he would have to content himself with that which he _did_ have. As always.

Arthur stayed his exit when he took Lancelot’s arm, intent behind the grip holding him in place better than the strength could.

He looked back, questioning, and saw resolve in Arthur’s eyes, something he had witnessed many times before, but never with regard to him.

“I would that you stay.” It was like surprise yet he could barely feel it, so effortlessly ensnared by the man sitting before him. A great leader, yes, but weathered tonight, and Lancelot again wondered at the heart of the matter.

“And stain your holy soul with yet another sin? Already there are two. Best take care, Arthur. Soon you will be barred from the White Kingdom.”

His words pained Arthur, and Lancelot took a little satisfaction in that. In his act he had expelled not just Arthur’s seed, but his mood. And appropriated it himself, or so it seemed.

“I shall worry about my immortal soul, Lancelot. But I would not have you leave this place in this way.” A firm tug on his arm had Lancelot again on Arthur, seeing what he had not noticed—the softness in Arthur’s eyes, promising things Lancelot could not allow himself to feel. 

There was no use for softness in this perpetual rainsquall, this country of withered flesh and banished dreams.

The kiss he did not expect—light and slow and too cherishing for this place. No room for tenderness here and Lancelot pushed Arthur back, using surprise to his advantage, licking into Arthur’s mouth, attack savage and unrelenting and _this_ Lancelot understood, this battle of wills that manifested in all things, such fire that seared through men’s souls until it left nothing but the ashes of their vain hope. 

_This_ he knew.

Unsurprising that Arthur responded with equal force, a man that would be as great as Lancelot himself, and Lancelot settled onto the body beneath him, rubbing into anything that would suffice.

Arthur pushed hands under cloth and touched, the burn of that touch over new wounds and new scars making Lancelot hiss and bite the other man’s lip. That made Arthur laugh, unexpected and bright, and he used Lancelot’s sudden stillness to tug off his tunic. A hand in black curls pulled Lancelot down and Arthur took his mouth again, rubbing his own hips against Lancelot’s, stoking the fire ever-present inside _both_ men.

“And what has put our fearless leader into a mood this night?” Lancelot asked breathlessly, unable to discontinue his meddling in affairs that were legitimately little of his business. Not that he would admit that to Arthur.

“You desire to speak of this _now_?” Incredulous and punctuated with a pointed thrust _up_ and Lancelot gasped and took hold of Arthur’s shoulders, intent on finding some purchase, getting some measure of control.

Arthur winced and growled, not liking the restriction, and in his attempt to overturn Lancelot, his movements became disjointed, more likely to offer pain than pleasure.

“Yield, damn you,” Lancelot muttered. His need had languished too long to inspire patience with Arthur’s foolishness. 

Arthur hissed beneath him and strained his neck forward, vicious bite to Lancelot’s neck a denial. “You would not desire this so were I to do that.”

There was some small seed of truth to that and Lancelot said nothing, using his weight and his advantageous position to hold Arthur, again brutalizing his mouth and taking what the fire between his legs ordered him to take.

Arthur would not speak, but the renewed hardness underneath Lancelot and the sounds that licked the air between them bespoke of that which Arthur would not say. Lancelot grinned when Arthur began shuddering beneath him, pulled back to watch as Arthur was again consumed, eyes closed, face intent on the spread of pleasure between them.

It was but the work of a further twist and _thrust_ and Lancelot felt himself follow where Arthur led, unaccountable annoyance burned away in the pleasure of a clean white flame.

Roused to find himself draped over Arthur, both breathing in strained sympathy, sudden quiet noticeable in the previous violence of their union.

Lancelot watched Arthur, watched as he shuttered his thoughts before Lancelot’s own observation, and felt the anger prick through at the heels of that fleeting pleasure.

“You did not answer me,” Lancelot reminded, accusation in his tone, his eyes. He would prod Arthur with this red-hot blade as he would prod any animal, seeking a reaction.

“You are the most damned irritating soldier I have ever had the pleasure to command.”

“Command me here, Arthur. Let us see what shall happen.” Said with a dare in his eyes and a smirk on his lips and the sharp glance with which Arthur fixed him, a glance that spoke of insolence and youth and a grudging respect for it, told Lancelot he would not be taken up on his request.

“I think not.”

Lancelot smirked in enjoyment, fingers seeking out pleasurable points under Arthur’s clothes, playful wickedness reflected in Arthur’s eyes. “As I knew. I shall not treat you as a tyrant to be feared. ‘Tis why you like me.”

“Shall I enlist your help to convince the others of the same?”

A pause in his explorations and that beautiful sunrise of enlightenment bloomed. Oh, what a foolish boy sprawled beneath him. “Is that what so bothers you? That they regard you with respect?”

“Not respect. Suspicion. Deference to my position and I would not desire this, Lancelot. Men are equal; I am no exception. I would them know that.”

Lancelot listened and paused and laughed. Laughed like one only can at the ridiculously noble, laughed until he could see the dark shadow of dragon’s fire and silver flame gathering in Arthur’s eyes, could see he had offended the man, though that was not his intent.

“You laugh at me?”

“I do.” He smiled. “I do, and I will aid you Arthur, for you are all of that which the stories already speak.”

Arthur colored slightly, as if the thought discomfited him. “I am only a man, Lancelot.”

Lancelot shifted on top of him deliberately, brushing together instruments of pleasure they had so recently used. “Well do I know,” he said with a friendly leer. 

Though this play could not go on indefinitely and Lancelot stopped, watched, like Tristan stressed was integral to any mission. This youngster needed to be taught his lesson, not that he would listen to Lancelot. He contemplated his next words carefully. “Though you show this to me, you do not with them. How can they treat you as anything other than their Roman commander when you act as naught but that?”

“I do not!” Arthur answered heatedly, squirming under Lancelot and pushing him to the side, turning to face him, a familiar fire in his eye stirring Lancelot’s already spent member. “I have never treated them as servants of Rome.”

He tsked, smiling inwardly at the flare of annoyance that caused. “You misunderstand me. We _know_ we are servants of Rome but you do not remind us, which is why we are loyal to you already. Still, you do not show them the man behind the commander and it is that to which they react.”

Arthur would not meet his eyes, indicating he’d absorbed some measure of the truth of that. It was more than Lancelot had expected—bloody stubborn son of Rome he was—and this man was so full of these surprises tonight. “I do not know of what you speak.”

“Why did you come here tonight?”

“Lancelot, you change the subject.”

“It is all the same, this is what you do not see. Why did you come here tonight, alone, to pleasure yourself when you could stay with your men or attract a pretty girl in which to find your pleasure?” 

“They watch me with a look in their eyes, a look I do not know.”

“It is respect. Loyalty.” Said with a gentleness he did not know he possessed and Lancelot needed to be more careful here; this path led to disaster.

“No. That is there when they observe you. They do not see me as they do you, Lancelot.”

“Well, of course not. I’m fun.” Couldn’t help but scoff at Arthur and grin, interrupt before Arthur had a chance to object. “I talk with them, of nothing, of home. I play games of chance with them. I steal their women. They _know_ me. Can the same be said of you?”

“You are saying that because I do not stay out drinking through the night they look at me that way. And because they look at me that way, I do not stay out drinking.”

Lancelot sighed in relief and mimicked how Arthur looked when he prayed to his god. “At last! Enlightenment has come to Artorius Castus. I’m sure your teacher would be overjoyed at your powers of logic.”

A smile quirked on Arthur’s lips, before being ruthlessly crushed. 

Lancelot grinned. “I saw that, Oh Great One. You cannot hide from me.” He shifted, relaxing into soft bedding—and the commander of this place was _obscenely_ coddled. Only right then that he share with his closest knight. 

“I would not. You are my faithful knight, the only one who does not treat me as a thief in the night, to be watched and distrusted.”

Lancelot rolled his eyes and waved Arthur’s melodrama away like the bit of silliness it was. Perhaps it was good to get him away from those torrid ‘dramas’ he so fondly spoke of. They skewed his understanding of reality. “Bah. You Romans do not impress me, with your cities of stone and your infernal bathing. Besides, I have had you in your bed.”

Arthur laughed, and looked at him with something akin to gratitude. “You treated me as a brother _before_ you had me in my bed. And what is so wrong with cleanliness? Better than to rot in your own stink.”

“It’s not natural for a man to want to bathe twice a day! And I do not stink,” he said, almost an afterthought. He didn’t. There was nothing wrong with the way he smelled.

“Not anymore. Now you smell of me,” Arthur said, mischievous glance trailing over disheveled and soiled clothing, like a physical caress, one sweeter than even his first kiss had been.

“And you would do to appreciate my love of bathing, as I have things with which to wash away the evidence of our activities. Or perhaps I should force you to walk back to your quarters this way, the others knowing exactly how you’ve been occupied.”

“Oh, please. I can regale them with tales of having the great Arthur at my mercy,” he said, eyebrow raised, point clear.

“Perhaps not. Come. We shall wash.”

“And then you shall accompany me back to the revelry and share stories of these great baths of yours with the rest of your faithful knights.”

“Had me once and already ordering me around?”

“Ah, now you see the disadvantage of your adherence to equality. Alas it is too late.”

Arthur smiled and leaned over, pressing another of those painfully simple kisses to Lancelot’s mouth, looking in his eyes with something Lancelot could not name, but unwillingly found himself desiring. “‘Tis worth it.”

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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